35/5" 

H8364 

1900 


SUN    iS    SHIN 
THfc!   BELLS   ARB  C 
THE  MORNING  AIR  IS  PURL  AMD  Cl 
THE  SMOKE  THAT'S   ASCENDIN 
WITH  THE  BRIGHT  LIGHT  IS  BLENI. 
BUT  OH!  FOR  THE  ONES  WHO  N'QLQNGEF 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


J 


PO67AS 


William  Matifial]  tfowdfd 


THE    SUN    IS    SHINING, 
THE   BELLS  ARE  CHIMING, 
THE  MORNING  AIR  IS  PURE  AND  CLEAR; 

THE  SMOKE  THAT'S  ASCENDING. 

WITH  THE  BRIGHT  LIGHT  IS  BLENDING, 

BUT  OH!  FOR  THE  ONES  WHO  NO  LONGER  ARE  HERE. 


COPYRIGHT,  1900 

BY 
M.  E.  HOWARD 


Ube  ftnfcherbocker  press,  Hew 


PS 

35)5 

H83&4 
1900 


DEDICATED  TO  HIS  FATHER. 


Oh  !  think  not,  when  I  am  free, 
That  I  '11  retain  no  thought  of  thee. 

WILLIE. 


INTRODUCTION. 

IF  any  be  inclined  to  smile  that  this  little  volume  is 
given  to  the  public,  let  them  remember  it  is  the  work 
of  a  youth  not  yet  passed  out  of  his  teens  ere  death's 
cold  hand  was  laid  upon  him;  or,  if  any  incline  to  pass 
the  poems  along  with  the  remark  that  they  are  "  sweet 
and  simple,"  yet  is  it  not  the  sweet  and  simple  that  we 
love  to  remember  ? 

William  Marshall  Howard  was  born  June  4,  1880,  in 
Malone,  N.  Y.,  where  he  spent  his  life  in  a  loving  home, 
except  a  short  period  at  the  Conservatory  of  Music  in 
Boston,  Mass.  He  also  received  instruction  in  sketching 
and  painting.  In  each  department  many  proofs  of  his 
ability  remain  in  the  adornment  of  his  home. 

His  poetical  effusions  seemed  a  natural  gift,  of  which 
no  one  was  aware  till  they  began  to  appear  in  the  poets' 
corner  of  the  local  papers. 

Of  frail  constitution  from  childhood,  his  health  was 
undermined  by  la  grippe  about  Christmas  time  of  1898, 
and  still  farther  drawn  upon  by  the  death  of  his  mother 
the  following  March.  A  little  later  a  sea  trip  to  the 
South  was  taken,  resulting  somewhat  beneficially,  so  that 
the  summer  was  passed  very  pleasantly. 


Vi  INTRODUCTION. 

But  when  school  commenced  it  soon  became  apparent 
that  his  health  had  not  rallied  sufficiently  to  bear  the 
strain,  and  "  God  touched  him  and  he  slept,"  passing 
softly  away  October  6,  1899,  as  he  sat  in  his  armchair 
quietly  reading. 

M.  W.  H. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE      WHITE     CITY  ;      OR,     A      BOY'S     IMITATION     OF 

HIAWATHA  ". I 

A    RAINY    DAY  .....  -5 

MIDNIGHT  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .    -      6 

CHANGED  ........          7 

THE    BROOK        ........          8 

TO    A    CARNATION     .......          9 

TWILIGHT  ........       10 

LOOKING    BACK  .  .  .  .  .  .  -II 

PROPHECIES       .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .12 

CONSOLATION 13 

WINTER   SUNSET         .  .  .  .  .  .  •       J5 

WINTER  .  .  .  .  .  .  .16 

THE   NIGHT    WIND     .  .-'       .  .  .  .  -I? 

BOYHOOD .19 

THE    SNOW-STORM 21 

WILL    AND    I      .  .  .  .  .  .  .  23 

LOST    CONFIDENCE    ...  .  .       24 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

NIGHT    THOUGHTS    .  .  .  .  .  .  .       26 

SUNDOWN .27 

NIGHTFALL        .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .28 

THE   OLD    YEAR  .......       29 

MORNING — SIX   O'CLOCK — SEPTEMBER,   1896       .  .       30 

SUMMER  .  .  .  .  .  •       31 

A    FRIEND    OF    MINE  .'  .  .  .  .  •       32 

THE   STORM       .  .  .  .  .  .  .  -35 

THE    DEATH    OF    THE    FLOWERS  .  .  .  36 

QUESTION  ........       37 

MRS.   TAYLOR    AND    THE    KEY  ;    OR,   THE    NIGHT    THE 

NUNNERY   DID  N*T    BURN  .  .  .  -38 

A    DRAMA    IN    ONE    ACT     .  .  .  .  .  .       40 

ONE   NIGHT        ........       41 

CUSTARD    PIE  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .       42 

HOW    TO   LIVE 43 

THE   END    OF    TIME  .  .  .  .  .  -44 

MIDNIGHT 46 

A    SOUL    .... 47 

PHANTASY          ...  .  .  .  .48 

HUMAN    LIFE    . 49 

LOGIC -51 

AUTUMN    TWILIGHT 52 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAGE 

SLEEP        .........       53 

APRIL 54 

SAD    THOUGHTS 55 

MY    MOTHER      .  .  .  .  .  .  •  •       5^ 

LOVED    ONES     .  .  .  .  .  •  •       5^ 

MEMORIES  ,' 59 

SEPARATION      .  .  ...  .  .  .       60 

REMEMBRANCE  ,  .  .  .  .  •  .       6l 

WORK    HEREAFTER  ...  .  .  .  .62 

A    WISH  .  .  .  ... 63 

A    DREAM  ...  .  .  •  •  -64 

THE   PALACE   OF    THE    KING 65 

QUESTION  .  .  .  .  .  .  •  .66 

SONG          .  •»'.'.  .  .  .  .  -67 

HOPE          .  .  .  .  .  .  .  •  •       68 

CHILD    AND    MOTHER  .  .  .  .  .  .       69 

THE    WORLD      .  .  7"       .  .  .  .  •       71 

LOST    HOPES      .  73 

TO    H.  M.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  -74 

A    DREAM  ........       75 

CONTENTMENT     ...     .     .     .     .     -76 

MY    MOTHER      .  .  .  .  .  •  •  -77 

WEARINESS        ....  .  •  •  -78 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  ANGEL'S  VISIT         ...                         -79 
TO  BEETHOVEN       .  •    •  . 80 

OLD    AGE             .           .            .           .  ...            .8l 

CHRISTMAS        ....  ...       82 

GOD   GIVETH    HIS   BELOVED   SLEEP  ,            .                        -83 

DEATH      .....  .             .       84 

APPENDIX          .           .           .            .  ...            -85 


POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


THE   WHITE  CITY;    OR,   A  BOY'S  IMITATION 
OF  HIAWATHA. 

WHERE  the  world  is  like  a  garden, — 
Filled  with  perfume  and  with  sunshine, 
Filled  with  fountains  and  with  statues; 
Where  the  very  sun  seems  happy, 
Shining  down  on  sparkling  water, 
Shining  down  on  scenes  of  beauty; 
Where  the  sight  of  the  gondolas, 
With  their  bright  and  many  colors, 
With  their  tops  of  red  and  yellow, 
Fill  the  mind  with  art  and  dreaming; 
Where  are  lakes  of  shining  water, 
Overarched  by  wide,  curved  bridges, 
Built  of  staff  to  mimic  marble, 
Thronged  with  people  coming,  going, 
Thronged  with  crowds  of  moving  people, 
All  partakers  of  the  sunshine 
That  is  thrown  o'er  bridge  and  water, 
i 


POEMS  BY    WM.    MARSHALL  HOWARD. 

All  partakers  of  the  beauty, 

That  is  everywhere  around  them, 

That  unrolls  on  all  sides  'round  them 

Like  a  mighty  panorama, 

Like  a  painting  gay  and  lovely; 

All  around  them  loom  the  buildings, 

Each  within  itself  a  city, 

Filled  with  all  the  art  and  beauty 

That  the  world  could  bring  together 

To  this  city  of  refinement, 

With  their  lofty,  classic  portals 

Casting  cool,  inviting  shadows 

Far  out  over  heated  pavements, 

Far  out  in  the  heat  of  noon-day, 

As  if  beckoning  to  enter, 

To  enjoy  their  cool  recesses, 

To  enjoy  their  vast  exhibits, 

That  like  caverns  unexplored, 

Wait  only  for  the  explorers ; 

So  no  longer  let  us  linger, 

But  beneath  their  portals  enter. 

ELECTRICITY    BUILDING. 

Down  through  lengthless  aisles  we  wander, 
Lined  on  every  side  with  wonder, 
Wonders  wrought  by  skill  and  science, 
Wrought  by  masters  of  invention; 


THE    WHITE   CITY. 

Doors  that  open  when  we  near  them, 

As  if  unseen  hands  had  moved  them 

(As  in  fairy  tales  a  king's  son 

Entering  some  unknown  palace, 

Finds  the  doors  for  him  are  opened); 

Pillars  formed  of  light  and  color, 

Fading,  brightening,  as  by  magic; 

Hanging  globes  of  captured  sunlight; 

Forges  without  smoke  or  ashes, 

And  above  all,  standing  calmly, 

With  a  smile  of  triumph,  Edison. 

With  a  parting  look  behind  us, 

Down  the  long  aisles  we  have  traversed, 

Down  the  long  aisles  of  exhibits, 

We  emerge  from  out  the  building, 

Out  into  the  dazzling  sunlight, 

Out  into  the  scenes  of  beauty; 

Hear  the  sounds  from  bands  of  music, 

Stationed  round  the  "  Court  of  Honor, '" 

See  the  throngs  of  moving  people, — 

And  from  thence  we  hasten  onward 

To  the  largest  of  the  buildings, 

Which  is  in  itself  a  city, 

Laid  in  streets,  with  massive  gate-ways, 

Leading  into  vast  exhibits, 

From  a  hundred  foreign  countries, 

From  a  hundred  foreign  nations; 


POEMS  BY    WM.    MARSHALL  HOWARD. 

Countless  cases  filled  with  china, 
Filled  with  quaint  and  lovely  vases, 
Filled  with  glassware  and  with  carving. 
Now,  farewell,  O  happy  city! 
Now  farewell,  for  we  must  leave  you, 
Leave  your  buildings  vast  and  roomy, 
With  their  wide  aisles,  lined  with  portals 
Leading  into  vast  exhibits 
From  a  hundred  foreign  countries, 
From  a  hundred  foreign  nations, — 
Leave  your  rooms  filled  with  Swiss  china, 
Leave  your  tables  heaped  with  vases, 
Leave  your  cases  filled  with  china. 

(Written  after  attending  the  World's  Fair.) 


A   RAINY  DAY. 


A   RAINY    DAY. 

O  THOU  dark,  sad  autumnal  day, 
How  with  my  thoughts  you  blend, 

As  I  look  back  on  the  distant  past 
And  think  of  what  was  then! 

All  life  seems  cold  and  dark  to  me, 
Like  the  day  that  is  outside, 

And  all  the  joys  that  I  once  knew 
With  the  past  have  forever  died. 


October  16,  1896. 


POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


MIDNIGHT. 

THE  clock  in  the  room  below  me 

Is  slowly  striking  the  hour, — 
And,  as  if  in  answer, 

I  hear  the  bells  from  the  high  church  tower. 

The  solemn  bells  of  midnight, 

That  alone  do  keep 
Their  watch  o'er  the  peaceful  village 

While  all  the  rest  are  asleep. 

The  lamp  burns  dim  on  the  table, 

I  hear  the  wind  outside, 
As  if  to  hasten  the  belated  traveller 

To  some  warm  fireside. 


1896. 


CHANGED. 


CHANGED. 

THE  sun  is  shining, 
The  bells  are  chiming, 

The  morning  air  is  pure  and  clear; 
The  smoke  that  's  ascending, 
With  the  bright  light  is  blending, — 

But,  oh!  for  the  ones  who  no  longer  are  here. 

The  snow  has  ceased  falling, 
The  bells  are  calling, 

With  clarion  notes,  from  their  steeples  high; 
The  hills  are  sounding, 
With  echoes  resounding 

That  roll  away  through  the  vaulted  sky. 

Without  there  is  gladness, 
But  within  me  is  sadness, 

And  a  gloom  that  resembles  the  cold,  dismal  rain. 
The  same  sun  is  shining, 
The  same  bells  are  chiming, 

But  to  me  they  are  not  the  same. 

Sunday  Morning,  January,  1896. 


POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


THE  BROOK. 

THE  music  of  the  mountain  brook 
Fills  the  woodland  side; 

The  gray  trees  bend  low,  and  look 
At  their  image  in  the  tide. 


TO  A    CARNATION.  9 


TO   A   CARNATION. 

How  pure  thou  art, 

When  the  sun  and  dew 
Combine  to  make  thee  open 

And  shed  thy  fragrance  anew! 

How  sweet  thy  perfume  is! 

Breathing  it,  we  seem  to  be 
Surrounded  by  the  air  of  heaven, 

Instead  of  thee. 

May  I  ever  live  my  life  like  thee, 

Free  from  all  sin, 

Trusting  in  Him 
Who  hath  made  both  you  and  me. 


IO          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


TWILIGHT. 

THE  sad  and  lonesome  twilight 

Was  falling  over  all, 
The  wind  swayed  wildly  the  branches 

Of  the  lindens  dark  and  tall. 

The  birds  had  ceased  their  singing. 
The  flowers  had  fallen  asleep, 

And  over  the  distant  landscape 
The  darkness  began  to  creep. 

The  cat  cried  loud  in  the  stillness 

And  crept  up  into  my  lap, 
Afraid  of  the  boisterous  north  wind 

That  around  the  gables  laughed. 


LOOKING  BACK.  II 


LOOKING   BACK. 

I  REMEMBER  the  beautiful  maple  trees 
That  bordered  each  well-known  street, 

Casting  their  cool  and  airy  shade 
Over  the  summer  heat. 

I  remember  the  happy  summer  plays, 
And  the  friendships  young  and  free, 

And  the  boyish  loves  of  those  early  days 
Come  back  again  to  me. 

Before  the  familiar  doorway, 

The  poplars  dark  and  tall, 
Like  brave,  time-beaten  sentinels, 

Are  watching  over  all. 

And  the  birds  sing  on  in  their  branches 

In  the  old,  familiar  tone, 
With  a  joy  that  's  akin  to  sadness 

They  try  to  welcome  me  home. 

O  birds,  that  are  ever  happy, 
Sing  on  your  beautiful  song, 

For  it  comes  like  a  hope  from  heaven 

To  this  world's  pain  and  wrong  ! 
Published  in  the  Student,  February,  1898. 


12          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


PROPHECIES. 

THE  wind  that  round  the  casement  flies 
Seems  uttering  deep  prophecies 

Of  things  still  yet  to  be, — 
Of  joys  and  friendships  not  of  earth, 
But  springing  from  the  wider  birth 

Of  great  Eternity. 


CONSOLATION.  13 


CONSOLATION. 

(ON    A    MELODY    BY    LISZT.) 

I  SAT  alone  by  the  window 

As  the  twilight  began  to  fall, 
And  the  shadows  deepened  and  lengthened 

From  the  lindens  dark  and  tall. 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 

That  I  could  not  put  away 
Crept  o'er  me,  as  the  darkness 

Was  creeping  over  the  day. 

I  seemed  to  see,  through  the  shadows 

That  loomed  on  every  side, 
The  faces  of  many  loved  ones 

Who  long  ago  had  died. 

Died,  yet  still  they  were  living, 

And  working  in  heaven's  bright  air, — 

Working  and  e'er  achieving, 
Till  we  should  meet  them  there. 


14  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 

We  know  not  where  they  are  living, 
Where  that  other  life  may  be, 

But  we  hope  that  somewhere,  somehow, 
All  of  them  again  to  see: 

All  of  the  many  departed 

Who  have  gone  before, 
In  a  happy,  better  country, 

To  see  them  all  once  more. 

We  wonder  what  they  are  doing, 
As  the  days  and  years  go  by, 

And  the  time  is  drawing  nearer, 
When  we,  like  them,  shall  die. 

When  we  gather  in  the  evening 

Around  the  fireside, 
And  with  voices  hushed  with  emotion 

Talk  of  those  who  have  died; 

Then  we  think  they  may  be  near  us, 
And  their  words,  although  unspoken, 

Reach  us  and  help  to  strengthen 
The  tie  which  remains  unbroken. 

The  grave  our  dust  retaineth, 
For  that  he  can  call  his  own, 

But  the  rest  our  Maker  daimeth, 
And  claimeth  all  alone. 


WINTER   SUNSET.  15 


WINTER  SUNSET. 

THE  warmthless  sun  of  December  has  set 
In  a  sea  of  cold  amber  and  glimmering  gold, 

But  look  at  the  brightness  that  's  lingering  yet, 
The  cloud-land  of  glory  o'er  heaven  unrolled. 


16  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL   HOWARD. 


WINTER. 

f 
AGAIN  have  come  the  winter  days, 

When  vales  put  on  their  robes  of  white, 
And  with  the  drifts  the  west  wind  plays 
In  loud  and  frolicsome  delight. 

Within  the  wood  lies  deep  the  snow, 

And  where  the  summer  sun  shone  bright 

Now  piercing  winds  of  winter  blow, 
And  glimmers  cold  the  wintry  light. 

Yet  dwells  a  beauty  everywhere 

No  other  season  ever  knows, 
And  nature  still  is  waiting  there, 

Where  sharp  and  cold  the  west  wind  blows. 


THE  NIGHT  WIND.  If 


THE  NIGHT   WIND. 

"  'T  is  only  the  rising  Night  Wind, 

Why  tremblest  so,  ray  child  ? 
Through  tree-tops  bleak,  fringed  with  sleet, 

The  North  Wind  howls  fierce  and  wild." 

"  O  Mother!  dearest  Mother! 

And  can'st  thou  still  not  hear 
What  the  voice  of  the  Night  Wind 

Whispereth  in  my  ear  ? 

"  I  shall  never  see  the  morning, 

For  long  before  the  day 
There  will  come  a  beautiful  angel 

To  carry  me  far  away." 

"  Be  still,  be  quiet,  my  darling, 
These  fears  are  foolish  and  wild; 

Surely  the  good  Lord  will  let  nothing 
Harm  my  dearest  child." 


1 8          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 

And  then  again  the  child  slumbered, 
But  the  mother  pressed  close  her  dear, 

For  a  strange  dread  had  possessed  her, 
At  her  heart  was  a  sickening  fear. 

Outside  she  heard  the  Night  Wind, 

The  Night  Wind  cold  and  wild, 
And  with  a  shudder  of  terror, 

She  turned  to  the  sleeping  child: 

"  Speak!  speak  to  me,  darling, 

And  drive  from  my  heart  this  strange  dread,' 
But  in  answer  she  heard  only  the  Night  Wind, 

For  the  child  in  her  arms  was  dead. 

January,  1897. 


BOYHOOD.  19 


BOYHOOD. 

WHAT  memory  holds  safe  for  me, 

Far  down  the  changeful  years  I  see 

A  thousand  pictures,  soft  and  bright 

(Like  lamps  kept  burning  through  the  night), 

Of  dear  home  rooms  I  used  to  know, 

Far,  far  away  in  the  long  ago. 

There  two  young  boys  together  played, 

And  one  the  evening  often  stayed. 

With  games  and  books  the  hours  were  spent 

Unheeded  as  they  quickly  went. 

A  magic  lantern  turned  the  night 

Into  a  land  of  vast  delight, 

As,  looking  at  the  views,  we  went 

Across  the  great,  wide  continent. 

The  scene  is  changed;  the  rooms  are  bright 

With  cold  December's  wintry  light, 

I  see  the  thickly  falling  snow 

Outside  the  windows  drift  and  blow, 

And  feel  once  more  the  nameless  joy 

That  Christmas  brings  to  every  boy. 

And  one  I  see  who  's  wandering  there, 


20  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD, 

A  dreamy  boy,  with  light  brown  hair, 

And  thoughtful  eyes,  unknown  to  sin, 

That  told  a  loving  heart  within; 

I  see  him  moving  to  and  fro, 

Now  looking  out  to  watch  the  snow, 

Then  turning  to  his  games  again, 

And  happy  plays  he  loved  so  then. 

Faster  and  faster  comes  the  dark, 

The  clocks  that  in  the  household  mark 

The  passing  hours  all  seem  to  say, 

"  Already  's  gone  another  day." 

Bright  days  of  childhood,  scenes  of  home, 

Wherever  I  perchance  shall  roam, 

Through  what  strange  countries  I  may  stray, 

Those  scenes  will  beautify  the  way; 

As  from  high  mountains  white  with  snow, 

We  look  down  in  the  vales  below, 

All  beautiful  and  bright  with  flowers 

And  sunlit  streams  and  glistening  towers, 

And  see  the  peasants  working  there 

Amidst  the  sunny,  perfumed  air. 


THE   SNOW-STORM.  21 


THE   SNOW-STORM. 

OUT  of  the  cloud-folds,  silent  and  fast 
As  apple-blossoms  fall  in  the  blast 
When  springtime  winds  their  branches  blow, 
So  through  the  dimness  falls  the  snow. 

At  times,  through  the  cloud-rack's  hazy  screen, 

Haggard  and  pale  the  sun  is  seen 

Hurrying  down  the  dark'ning  sky, 

A  king  dethroned  from  his  realm  on  high. 

Dimmer,  yet  dimmer,  grows  the  light, 
And  the  landscape  sinks  away  into  night, 
While  one  by  one,  through  the  dark  and  snow, 
The  village  windows  gleam  and  glow. 

With  a  cheerful  light,  gathered  inside, 
The  family  sit  round  the  fireside, 
Which,  with  a  warm,  comfortable  glow, 
Defies  the  powers  of  the  snow. 


22  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 

Ah!  happy  they  whom  pomp  nor  gold 

Drive  exile  from  the  hearth  of  old, 

Where  childhood's  thoughtless  hours  were  passed,- 

That  keep  sweet  memories  till  life's  last. 

Of  winter  evenings  long  ago, 
And  dear  home  faces  that  they  know, 
Now  shines  no  more  as  in  the  blaze 
Of  that  hearth  fire  of  younger  days. 
February,  1897. 


WILL  AND  I.  23 


WILL   AND   I. 

WITH  what  joy  I  now  remember 
Those  long  nights  in  bleak  December 
When  we  used  to  stay  together, 

Will  and  I,  Will  and  I; 
Then  we  did  so  love  each  other, 

Will  and  I, 
Then  we  hoped  to  die  together, 

Will  and  I. 

But  he  went  to  heaven  without  me, 
And  alone  I  now  am  waiting, 
Till  we  meet  in  that  bright  country, 

Will  and  I. 
September,  1897. 


24          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


LOST   CONFIDENCE. 

THERE  is  a  house  that  I  remember, 
The  rooms  are  filled  with  sunny  light, 

And  recollections  pure  and  tender 

That  now  make  glad  my  darkest  night. 

There  is  a  face  that  I  remember, 
A  dear,  kind  face  I  see  no  more; 

Life's  toil  for  her  has  long  been  over, 
She  's  safe  upon  the  heavenly  shore. 

O  childhood  days!  so  long  departed, 
When  all  unknown  was  care  and  pain ; 

0  Life!  that  pure  and  peaceful  started, 
Why  can  ye  not  come  back  again  ? 

1  would  that  I  might  see  the  way 

My  Father  wants  His  child  to  tread, 
And  know  that  through  each  wandering  day 
My  feet  by  Him  are  safely  led. 


LOST  CONFIDENCE.  2$ 

O  God  of  love,  my  soul  cries  out 
That  you  will  still  life's  wildest  gale, 

That  he  who  follows  Thee  throughout, 
To  him,  there  's  no  such  word  as  Fail. 

And  yet  Thy  ways  I  'd  understand, 

And  Heaven's  pure  lamps  once  more  to  see, 

As  beacon  lights  set  on  the  land, 
To  home-bound  sailors  far  at  sea. 

For  night  and  mist  are  deep  about, 
The  lights  have  faded  from  the  shore; 

My  soul  is  filled  with  fear  and  doubt, 
And  childlike  trust  I  know  no  more. 


1898. 


26  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


NIGHT   THOUGHTS. 

INDISTINCT  in  the  light 
Of  the  summer  night 

Arise  the  gloomy  pines; 
Their  dark  banners  high 
Touch  the  midnight  sky 

In  dim  and  waving  lines. 


SUNDOWN.  27 


SUNDOWN. 

THE  winter  sun  has  sunk  to  rest, 
And  all  is  dark  but  the  glowing  West, 
That  with  a  splendor  still  burns  on, — 
The  last  sad  light  of  the  day  that  's  gone. 

Down  in  the  darkness,  in  the  room  below, 
I  hear  the  voices  that  fainter  grow 
And  die  away  in  the  dimming  light, 
And  all  is  silence  and  sadness  and  night. 

Within  me  the  sun  has  sunk  to  rest, 
And  all  is  dark  but  the  glowing  West, 
That  with  a  splendor  still  burns  on, — 
A  sad  rerr.ciinder  of  the  days  that  are  gone. 

Down  in  the  darkness,  in  my  heart  below, 
I  hear  the  voices  that  fainter  grow, 
And  die  away  in  the  dimming  light, 
And  all  is  silence  and  sadness  and  night. 


January,  1897. 


28          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


NIGHTFALL. 

THE  night  has  come,  the  beautiful  night; 

All  is  wrapped  in  the  hush  of  sleep, 
Only  the  windows  redden  and  glow, 

Of  the  houses  across  the  street. 

We  draw  closer  our  chairs  in  the  fading  light, 
While  the  things  in  the  room  grow  farther  away 

And  lose  themselves  in  the  dusky  gloom, 
Until  nothing  is  left  of  the  day. 

And  the  children,  with  faces  pressed  close  to  the  pane, 
Peer  out  into  the  night,  and  listen  and  hark 

To  catch  the  roar  of  the  forges  bright, 

When  outside  the  demon  is  making  the  dark. 

1896. 


THE   OLD  YEAR.  29 


THE   OLD   YEAR. 

FROSTY  and  cold  is  the  winter's  night, 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  drifted  snow; 
Old  and  gray,  on  his  bed  of  ice, 

Lies  the  Old  Year,  ready  to  go. 
Haggard  and  old,  in  the  bleak  night  air 

He  shivers  at  every  blast, 
And  trembles  to  think  that  his  faltering  breath 

May  each  time  be  the  last. 
Oh !  why  must  you  die,  my  dear  Old  Year  ? 

I  have  loved  you  so 
That  it  seems  as  if  all  had  gone 

But  you  —  and  now  you  must  go. 
No  year  that  ever  came  before, 

No  year  that  shall  ever  come, 
Will  be  to  me  as  dear  a  friend 

As  the  year  that  is  almost  gone. 
1896. 


3O  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


MORNING— SIX   O'CLOCK— SEPTEMBER,    1896. 

ROBED  in  all  their  majesty  of  green,  stand  the  hills, 

Transfigured  in  the  golden  flood  of  early  sunlight. 

Through  the  fresh,  crisp  air,  clear  and  sweet, 

I  hear  the  crowing  of  the  cocks; 

The  oriole  has  begun  to  sing;  under  my  feet 

The  dead  leaves  rustle  low, 

And  through  the  rosy  gate  that  Time  unlocks 

I  feel  the  fresh  breath  of  to-morrow  blow. 

To-morrow, — that  strange  and  unknown  guest; 

What  joy  or  sorrow  he  may  bring  us, 

We  know  not;  but  whatever  God  wills  must  be  best! 


SUMMER.  31 


SUMMER. 

WHEN  a  child,  I  loved  to  lie 
Beneath  the  cloudless  summer  sky, 
And  feel  the  gentle  summer  breeze, 
Laden  with  thoughts  of  brooks  and  trees, 
While  all  around  the  woodland  made 
A  cool,  unbroken  ring  of  shade, 
And,  high  above,  the  heated  hill 
Dozed  in  the  sunshine,  hot  and  still. 


32          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL   HOWARD. 


A   FRIEND   OF   MINE. 

How  strange  it  seems  that  one  so  young 

And  fair  as  he  should  be  no  longer  here; 
The  birds  that  once  for  him  their  carols  sung 

Are  singing  now,  with  notes  as  sweet  and  clear 
As  in  the  happier  days,  but  he  will  come  no  more; 
In  vain  I  wait  at  his  familiar  door, — 
No  boyish  step  is  heard  along  the  hall, 
But  hush  and  sadness  resting  over  all. 
The  day  is  warm  with  sunshine,  and  everywhere 
A  peaceful  stillness  fills  the  morning  air; 

Through  all  the  house,  by  each  open  door, 
The  summer  winds  waft  wide  the  apple  blooms; 

They  search  the  quiet  rooms,  but  find  him  there  no 
more. 

I  remember  the  tall  old  shadowy  oak 

That  stood  alone  in  the  street, 
Casting  its  cool  and  welcome  shade 

Over  the  summer  heat. 

And  how  when  the  winds  of  autumn  came 
To  shake  the  acorns  down, 


A    FRIEND   OF  MINE.  33 

We  used  to  hurry  home  from  school, 
To  find  them  on  the  ground. 

I  remember  the  childish  awe  and  dread 

Of  the  graveyard  on  the  hill. 
Where  lay  sleeping  the  peaceful  dead, 

In  the  darkness,  cold  and  still. 

I  remember  the  happy  summer  plays, 

And  the  friendships  young  and  free, 
And  the  boyish  loves  of  those  early  days 

Come  back  again  to  me. 

But  one  was  there  who  '11  come  no  more, 
Whose  face  on  earth  I  ne'er  shall  see, 

For  he  has  passed  from  out  that  door 
Where  all  beyond  is  mystery. 

Oh !  summer  winds  that  blow  without, 

Your  freshness  brings  me  thoughts  of  pain, 

For  all  the  gladness  of  your  shout, 
Can  never  bring  him  back  again. 

And  yet,  to  me  he  is  not  dead! 

But  to  a  fairer  country  gone; 
Like  some  white  bird,  from  the  cage  fled, 

That  now  in  purer  air  lives  on. 


34          POEMS  BY  VVM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 

And  when  that  time  comes,  when  I  '11  die, 
Let  not  those  gathered  round  me  weep! 

But  bending  o'er  me  where  I  lie, 

Just  softly  say,  "  He  's  gone  to  sleep." 

For  what  to  souls  of  life  is  death  ? 

Though  cold  and  motionless  we  lie, 
Not  for  an  instant  stops  our  breath ; 

It  is  but  into  life  we  die! 

Oh!  look  abroad  upon  the  hills; 

There  's  nothing  there  which  speaks  of  death! 
Not  even  in  the  frozen  rills, 

Nor  in  the  north  wind's  piercing  breath. 

For  over  all  shines  bright  the  sun, 
And  gladdens  the  bleak  hills  of  snow: 

While  'neath  the  ice  the  glad  streams  run, 
To  turn  the  mill  that  waits  below. 

For  all  the  universe  is  life! 

Oh !  do  not  for  a  moment  dream 
That  through  the  sunny  vales  of  strife, 

There  flows  a  cold,  unconscious  stream. 
July,  1897.     Published  in  the  Gazette. 


THE   STORM.  35 


THE   STORM. 

SEE!  the  sky  is  growing  dark, 
And  from  yonder  mountain,  hark! 
How  the  thunder  rumbles  low. 
See!  the  wind  begins  to  blow, — 
How  it  rustles  all  the  leaves; 
How  it  bends  the  frightened  trees! 
Dimmer,  dimmer  grows  the  light! 
Distant  objects  fade  from  sight, 
Lost  amidst  the  pouring  rain 
That  is  coming  on  amain. 


36          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

(A    FRAGMENT.) 

THE  sad,  short  winter  days  have  come, 
The  nights  are  cold  and  drear; 

The  flowers  all  have  gone  away 
Until  another  year. 

And  even  as  the  flowers  have  died, 

So  we,  too,  shall  die; 
And  low  down  in  the  gloomy  grave 

Our  bodies  they  will  lie. 

But  there  will  come  a  spring-time 

On  this  sad  world  of  ours, 
When  we,  too,  shall  live  again, 

Even  as  the  flowers. 


QUESTION.  37 


QUESTION. 

OH!  even  if  we  knew  we  ne'er  should  wake 
From  that  last  sleep;  if  Death  should  take 
Away  from  us  all  that  had  once  been  dear, 
All  aspirations,  hopes  that  we  had  cherished  here; 
Oh!  would  not  even  then  the  grave's  unbroken  rest 
Unto  our  tired,  world-sick  souls  seem  best  ? 

October  29,  1896. 


38          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


[That  he  sometimes  broke  into  the  playful  will  be  seen  by  the 
following :] 

MRS.    TAYLOR   AND   THE   KEY;    OR,   THE 
NIGHT  THE  NUNNERY  DID  N'T  BURN. 

WHEN  Mrs.  Taylor  reached  the  door-step, 

The  key  she  could  not  find; 
The  fire-bells  were  ringing; 

She  thought  she  must  be  blind. 

"  Break  in  the  door!  "  a  girl  cried. 

"  Oh,  no!  my  dear,"  she  said, 
"  Than  to  break  in  that  panelled  door, 

I  'd  far  rather  be  dead." 

She  heard  the  engines  coming 

Far  down  the  windy  street, 
And  on  the  walks  the  patter 

Of  many  hurrying  feet. 

"  Oh!  what  shall  I  do,"  she  murmured, 

"  The  key  I  cannot  find; 
'T  is  not  beneath  the  door-mat, 

Nor  yet  behind  the  blind." 


MRS.   TAYLOR  AND  THE  KEY.  39 

The  bells  kept  slowly  ringing 

Their  message  on  the  night, 
The  wind  was  ever  rising, 

The  moon  shone  calm  and  bright. 

"I  '11  find  that  key  this  instant!  " 

Poor  Mrs.  Taylor  cried; 
"  Oh!  now  I  know, — I  put  it 

In  the  bag  that  's  by  my  side." 

"  Yes,  here  it  is, — I  've  found  it! 

Now  to  get  my  things  away; 
What  's  that  ?     I  won't  believe  it! 

The  fire  's  out,  they  say!  " 

October,  1898. 


40          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 

A   DRAMA   IN   ONE   ACT. 

SCENE:  Interior  of  a  back  hall;  night;  a  great  fire  is 
illuminating  the  sky.  Characters:  KATIE  and  WILLIE. 
Time:  about  ten  o'clock. 

WILLIE  (from  hall  door)  : 

AWAKE!    Arise! 

Your  sleepy  eyes 

Ne'er  saw  a  sight 

Like  that  to-night. 

The  sky  o'erhead 

Is  fiery  red! 

(A  deep  silence,  broken  only  by  some  one  turning  over 
in  the  room  above.) 

KATIE  (in  a  smothered  voice  from  beneath  the  bed-clothes) : 

I  've  gone  to  bed! 

Who  cares  a  thread, 

If  the  sky  is  red  ? 

With  my  tired  head, 

I  feel  'most  dead! 

A  fire,  you  say  ? 

Well,  let  it  stay 

And  burn  till  day, 

I  hope  it  may! 

(At  this  she  covers  up  head  and  ears,  and  the  stillness 
is  unbroken.) 


ONE  NIGHT.  41 


ONE    NIGHT. 

"  GOOD  Night,"  we  'd  said, 

And  gone  to  bed; 
The  evening  well  we  'd  spent, — 

Full  quiet  't  did  grow, 

When  from  below 
A  question  up  was  sent; 

When  Katie  dear 

We  next  did  hear 
Inquiring  what  it  meant. 

As  some  sweet  bird 

At  evening  heard 
From  out  her  room  she  came, 

Robed  all  in  white 

A  heavenly  sight 
(Would  I  had  seen  the  same!) — 

As  once  before, 

When  all  the  floor 
Beneath  our  feet  did  rock; 

Ah!  what  a  sight 

I  saw  that  night 
That  came  the  earthquake  shock. 


42          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


CUSTARD    PIE. 

WHAT  do  I  see, 

So  precious  to  me, 
Within  the  oven  yonder  ? 

Is  it  all  for  me, 

All  that  I  see  ? 
I  cannot  help  but  wonder. 


HOW  TO  LIVE.  43 


HOW   TO   LIVE. 

A  LITTLE  love  to  light  the  way, 

And  make  our  lives  both  good  and  gay. 

A  little  work  to  still  unrest, 
That  may  arise  within  our  breast. 

A  little  fun,  lest  we  may  grow 
Life's  sadder  parts  alone  to  know. 

A  little  faith,  so  when  we  die 

We  '11  go  where  none  shall  say  good-by. 


44          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD, 


THE    END   OF   TIME. 

THE  embers  on  the  hearth  were  dying, 
The  familiar  things  in  the  room  grew  dim, 

The  wind  outside  was  crying, 
As  if  wanting  to  get  in. 

Already  the  stroke  of  midnight 

Had  sounded  from  the  dark  church  tower, 
But  still  I  sat  and  lingered, 

Unmindful  of  the  hour. 

The  clock  ticked  loud  in  the  stillness, 

The  wind  blew  cold  outside, 
As  if  to  hasten  and  warn  me 

That  another  day  had  died. 

"Only  a  day,"  I  said; 

As  I  did  so,  some  one  laughed  at  the  door, 
And  I  heard  the  voice  of  an  angel 

Declare  Time  should  be  no  more. 


THE   END   OF  TIME.  45 

He  stood  in  the  open  doorway, 

His  eyes  regarding  mine; 
In  one  hand  he  held  the  sword  of  Death, 

In  the  other  the  end  of  Time. 

And  again  I  heard  the  warning, 

Like  the  note  of  a  distant  chime, 
That  I  could  live  no  longer, 

For  there  'd  come  an  end  to  Time. 

He  took  a  step  nearer  to  me  ; 

"  Not  yet,  O  God!  "  I  cried, 
But  swiftly  I  felt  myself  sinking 

Through  darkness  deep  and  wide. 


I  awoke  as  from  a  deep  slumber; 

The  room  was  dark  and  cold  ; 
The  night  wind  pried  at  the  windows, 

Like  a  midnight  robber  bold. 

But  all  my  fears  had  vanished, 
Vanished  and  forever  gone, 

For  I  knew  that  God  was  watching. 
While  the  march  of  Time  went  on. 


46  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


MIDNIGHT. 

MIDNIGHT,  and  still  the  world  rolls  on; 

A  day  begun,  and  a  day  that  's  gone; 
Outside  with  a  cold,  glimmering  light, 
The  stars  alone  watch  on  through  the  night, 

And  still  the  world  whirls  on. 


A  SOUL.  47 


A   SOUL. 

'T  WAS  the  middle  of  night  by  the  village  clock. 
Far  off  I  heard  the  crowing  cock, 
And  the  tread  of  the  watchman,  as  up  and  down 
He  paced  the  streets  of  the  sleeping  town. 

The  moon  was  just  passing  behind  a  cloud, 
When  under  my  window  a  dog  howled  loud, 
And  away  on  the  moorland  I  plain  could  hear 
The  ghostly  night  wind,  cold  and  drear. 

And  I  saw  a  soul  upon  its  flight, 
Going  upward  to  the  realms  of  light, — 
A  soul  that  from  the  earth  had  fled, 
Leaving  its  body  cold  and  dead. 

I  watched  it  in  its  upward  flight, 

Until  in  the  darkness  't  was  lost  to  sight; 

But  I  smiled,  for  I  knew  that,  though  all  alone, 

'T  was  guided  safe  toward  the  Father's  Home. 


48  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


PHANTASY. 

I  READ  a  story,  a  story,  to-night, 

When  high  in  the  sky  the  moon  hung  bright, 

And  flooded  my  chamber  with  magical  light; 

Then  out  of  my  chair  with  a  tremor  upstarting, 

I  stood  at  my  window,  all  breathlessly  harking 

For  a  sound  that  I  'd  fancied  I  heard  on  the  wind, 

But  the  hush  was  unbroken,  the  night  gave  no  sign; 

The  pine  just  below  me  waved  high  its  dark  arm 

And  seemed  to  be  pointing  in  frightened  alarm. 

The  valley  was  lighted  with  brilliant  moonshine, 

And  again  I  thought  something  was  borne  on  the  wind, 

And  with  a  vague  terror  I  held  my  quick  breath, 

When  loud  on  the  stillness  there  rang  the  word,  ' '  Death !  ' ' 


HUMAN  LIFE.  49 


HUMAN  LIFE. 

ALL  things  are  governed  in  His  way, 
Naught  of  the  future  can  we  tell; 

To-day  will  soon  be  yesterday, 
Our  greeting  may  be  but  farewell. 

There  are  things  words  can  ne'er  express, 

And  better  't  is  that  it  is  so  ; 
For  who  the  sorrows  we  repress, 

Like  we  ourselves  could  ever  know? 

The  past  will  never  come  again; 

Its  castle  walls  and  turrets  high, 
That  lie  around  its  strong  domain, 

Resist  all  entrance  to  our  cry. 

But  oft  in  dreams  we  enter  there, 
Its  gates  are  then  thrown  open  wide; 

With  solemn  feet  we  tread  the  stair 
To  well-known  halls  on  every  side. 


50  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 

"T  is  then  we  meet  those  who  are  gone, 
Come  hand  to  hand  and  face  to  face; 

And  the  old  love  that  still  lives  on, 
Again  within  our  hearts  finds  place. 

And  so  we  live  from  day  to  day; 

Each  hour  made  up  of  joy  and  pain, — 
A  manly  striving  to  be  gay, 

A  cry  for  what  comes  not  again! 

But  when  hereafter  we  shall  look 

Back  o'er  our  lives  here,  they  will  seem 

Like  chapters  in  a  once-loved  book, — 
As  in  the  morning  seems  a  dream. 


LOGIC.  51 


LOGIC. 

IF  death  means  leaving  care  and  pain, 
Ah !  surely  then  to  die  is  gain ; 
If  death  means  never  more  to  wake, 
None  e'er  will  tell  us  our  mistake,— 
If  that  false  doctrine  should  be  so, 
None  e'er  will  say,  "  I  told  you  so." 


52  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


AUTUMN   TWILIGHT. 

IN  the  dim  and  beautiful  twilight, 

When  the  cares  that  e'er  burden  the  day, 

Like  things  that  live  only  in  daylight, 
Are  rapidly  fading  away, — 

I  can  hear  the  glad  voices  of  children 
Ring  clear  through  the  dim,  smoky  air, 

And  memories  flood  rapidly  o'er  me 

That  break  wide  all  the  bondments  of  care. 

Memories  of  home  and  of  childhood, 
Of  cold  autumn  nights  long  ago, 

Of  bon-fires  famed  only  in  childhood, 
Before  the  first  fall  of  the  snow. 


SLEEP.  53 


SLEEP. 

OH,  sleep,  I  now  give  wholly  up  to  thee, 
Your  potent  powers  no  longer  I  withstand, 
But  as  a  little  child  led  by  the  hand, 
Sink  unafraid  into  your  mystery. 

The  thoughts  that  have  o'erwrought  my  weary  brainr 
The  strife,  the  care,  the  worry  and  the  pain, 
Now  fade  away  and  sink  into  the  deep 
Unconsciousness  of  peaceful  sleep. 


54  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


APRIL. 

How  beautiful  are  these  warm,  bright  days! 

After  dismal  winter  gales, 
And  piercing  winds,  when  the  sun's  returning  rays 

Gladden  the  dark  vales. 

I  heard  to-day,  along  the  lonely  dell, 

The  first  robin  sing; 
The  glad  messenger,  whose  sweet  notes  foretell 

The  coming  forth  of  spring. 


SAD  THOUGHTS.  55 


SAD   THOUGHTS. 

AT  night  when  the  rain  is  pouring, 
And  the  sky  is  without  a  star, 

I  cannot  help,  as  I  listen, 
But  wonder  where  you  are. 

I  bent  o'er  you,  as  you  lay  in  your  coffin, 
On  that  one  sad,  hideous  day, 

And  the  house  grew  forever  darker, 
When  I  saw  them  take  you  away, — 

Away  from  the  home  you  'd  made  lovely, 
From  the  ones  who  loved  you  so, 

To  a  hill  where  the  wind  was  blowing, 
And  a  grave  beneath  the  snow. 


56          POEMS  BV  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


MY   MOTHER. 

IT  is  thy  portrait;  mother,  let  me  pay 
To  thee  such  homage  as  my  numbers  may. 
Those  dear,  kind  eyes  that  look  so  straight  at  me, 
In  them  a  wealth  of  mother's  love  I  see, 
And  even  now  I  almost  hear  thee  say, 
"  Fear  not,  my  boy;  God  '11  wipe  all  fears  away." 
Oh!  happier  far  art  thou  where  thou  hast  gone, 
But  here  the  lonely  days  drag  slowly  on, — 
Drag  slowly  on,  and  thou  dost  come  no  more; 
In  vain  I  wait  beside  thy  chamber  door, 
And  wander  through  the  hall  and  down  the  stair, 
The  one  dear  face  I  look  for  is  not  there. 
Oh,  why  should  I  so  wish  thee  back  again, 
To  dwell  amid  this  world  of  grief  and  pain  ? 
But,  oh!  the  years  that  still  must  come  and  go, 
In  which  a  mother's  love  I  ne'er  shall  know; 
In  which  thy  voice  will  never  soothe  again 
The  days  of  sickness  and  the  nights  of  pain; 
And  yet  one  thought  still  brims  my  soul  with  joy, 
That  you  can  never  cease  to  love  your  boy! 
That  oft  to  cheer  me  through  the  hours  of  pain 
Your  loving  spirit  will  come  back  again; 


MY  MOTHER.  57 

For  what  were  all  the  brightness  there  above, 
If  you  could  never  see  the  boy  you  love  ? 
O  Death !  you  have  not  taken  her  away, 
That  you  can  never  do  since  love  will  stay! 
Can  never  take  her  from  me;   stronger  far, 
Must  be  that  power  than  what  your  precepts  are! 
And  when  my  soul  is  ent'ring  that  last  night, 
And  things  of  earth  are  fading  from  my  sight, 
O  mother,  come  from  the  far-distant  shore, 
Sit  by  my  side  as  in  the  days  of  yore, 
And  in  your  arms,  oh !  let  me  fall  asleep, 
Never  again  to  suffer  or  to  weep. 


58          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


LOVED   ONES. 

I  HEARD  the  wind  o'er  the  chimney 
Chanting  a  strange,  wild  song; 

It  seemed  to  tell  me  of  loved  ones 
Who  had  been  gone  so  long. 

In  the  cold  and  lonesome  twilight, 
I  fancied  that  I  could  hear 

Their  well-remembered  voices 
Which  speak  no  longer  here. 

All  their  dear  and  homelike  phrases, 
From  across  the  silent  years 

Came  flooding  back  to  my  memory, 
And  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 


MEMORIES.  59 


MEMORIES. 

THESE  are  the  tales  she  read  me  long  ago, 
And  that  is  why  I  love  them  so; 
These  are  the  things  I  used  to  see  her  wear, 
And  that  is  why  I  take  of  them  such  care; 
These  are  the  rooms  where  once  she  used  to  be, 
And  that  is  why  they  are  so  dear  to  me. 


60          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


SEPARATION. 

OH  !  the  useless,  vain  regretting, 
Oh !  the  tears  my  paper  wetting, 

Oh!    the  longing  for  a  mother  who  will  never  come 

again ; 

Oh!  the  cruel  night  of  sorrow, 
Oh !  the  waking  on  each  morrow, 

To  the  sense  of  something  missing  and  the  ever-present 
pain. 

Oh !  the  hope  that  still  is  lying, 
Far  beyond  this  world  of  dying, 

Hope  that  I  again  may  see  her  where  she  's  waiting 

now  for  me; 

Oh!  the  happiness  of  dying, 
Oh!  the  senseless  fuss  of  crying, 

When  we  go  to  meet  a  mother  whom  we  long  so  much 
to  see. 


REMEMBRANCE.  .         6 1 


REMEMBRANCE. 

ONE  friend  alone 
I  've  ever  known 

Who  always  did  stand  by  me, 
Who,  when  all  other 
Friends  had  flown, 

Would  never  leave  nor  chide  me. 

But  now  she  's  gone. 
The  days  pass  on, 

But  I  '11  ne'er  find  another 
Who  '11  ever  be 
As  kind  to  me 

As  kind  as  was  my  mother. 


62  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


WORK   HEREAFTER. 

OH  !  what  joy  doth  fill  the  human  soul, 

When  first  it  feels  unto  itself  is  given 

Some  work  that  needs  the  purer  air  of  heaven, — 

That  change  which  gives  to  us  more  clear  control 

Of  all  those  higher  instincts  which  are  ours, — 

A  wider  field  to  exercise  our  powers, — 

Where  those  who  love  will  love  us  deep  and  true, 

And  most  for  what  we  are,  and  what  we  do; 

Where  past  and  present  will  but  seem  as  one, 

Since  all  our  work  will  be  but  yet  begun. 


A    WISH.  63 


A   WISH. 

IF  when  I  died  I  knew  one  thought  of  mine 
Would  longer  stay  with  men  than  any  other, 

I  'd  choose  this  one,  and  hope  that  it  might  lie 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  every  father,  mother. 

Although  thy  child's  gifts  are  not  what  thou  would 
They  'd  been,  still  think  that  it  is  best! 

Oh!  let  him  be  what  God  has  planned  he  should! 
And  unto  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest. 

For  well  I  know  't  is  neither  right  nor  wise 
With  God's  high  plans  and  purposes  to  play, 

For  human  life  might  sometime  be  the  prize 
We  would  for  our  own  wishes  have  to  pay. 

July,  1899. 


64  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


A   DREAM. 

LAST  night  I  dreamed  the  rooms  below  were  lighted, 

And  in  the  hall  a  merry  comp'ny  sped 
The  time  with  games,  when,  suddenly  affrighted, 

All  quickly  paused  ;  for  darkly  overhead 

A  large,  winged  bird  appeared  above  them,  circling 
In  wide,  fantastic  curves  around  each  light; 

And  all  who  looked  felt  some  strange,  unknown  meaning 
Attached  unto  the  unexpected  sight. 

A  sense  of  fear  pervaded  all  the  comp'ny, 
'Till  one  among  them  laughing,  lightly  said  : 

"  'T  is  but  a  bird, — throw  open  wide  the  casement!  " 
And  into  the  night  the  dark-winged  stranger  sped. 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  KING.         65 


THE   PALACE   OF   THE  KING. 

TO-DAY  I  have  been  thinking, 
When  I  heard  the  robins  sing, 

When  here  it  is  so  lovely, 

With  the  sunshine  and  the  spring, 

What  each  day  must  be  up  yonder, 
In  the  Palace  of  the  King. 

In  His  bright  and  glorious  palace, 

Oh!  how  proud  we  all  should  be, 
That  we  are  His  ambassadors, 

And  soon  He  '11  set  us  free. 
And  who  '11  describe  that  meeting, 

The  joy  we  all  shall  bring, 
To  those  who  now  are  waiting 

In  the  Palace  of  the  King  ? 


66          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


QUESTION. 

SHALL  I  find  my  mamma  there, 
With  her  soft  and  lovely  hair  ? 
Shall  I  hear  her  voice  again, 
That  could  soothe  away  all  pain  ? 
Will  she  read  to  me  once  more, 
As  she  did  in  days  of  yore  ? 


SONG.  67 


SONG. 

AT  last,  at  last, 
When  all  is  past, 
We  "11  meet  to  part, 
To  part  no  more; 
You,  dear,  and  I, 
Where  none  shall  die, 
We  '11  meet  to  part, 
To  part  no  more. 


68          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


HOPE. 

THIS  morning,  as  I  lay  in  that  calm  state 

When  one  is  not  asleep  nor  yet  awake, 

When  the  idle  dreams  play, 

And  the  thought  with  the  reason  goes  astray, 

I  thought  I  was  a  boy  again, 

And  everything  was  changed  to  what  had  been  then. 

I  heard  voices  I  had  not  heard  since  when  a  child, 

Voices  I  had  'most  forgot. 

My  mother's  face  looked  down  on  me  and  smiled, 

And  as  I  looked  up  at  her 

The  tears  in  these  eyes  were  hot. 

Then  unto  my  soul  a  calm,  sweet  voice  spoke, 

So  full  of  love,  so  full  of  hope  : 

"  Never  fear!  you  shall  see  them  all  again, 

And  everything  will  be  as  it  was  then  ; 

For  God  is  love,  as  Heaven  is  love, 

And  those  whom  you  mourn  as  dead— 

They  are  living  in  that  other  life  above." 


CHILD  AND  MOTHER.  69 


CHILD  AND  MOTHER. 

O  MOTHER,  my  love,  hold  close  my  tired  head, 

And  sit  by  me  the  weary  night  through, 
For  when  the  late  watchers  shall  say  I  am  dead, 

I  '11  be  waiting  and  watching  for  you. 

Waiting  for  you  in  that  bright,  happy  land, 

Where  suffering  and  pain  are  no  more, 
In  the  streets  of  that  city  at  whose  gates  angels  stand, 

Lest  Death  should  pass  through  the  bright  door. 

And  oh!  think  of  the  gladness,  to  meet  once  again 

The  dear  one  we  lost  long  ago  ; 
Yet  even  that  meeting  will  be  darkened  with  pain, 

When  I  think  of  you  waiting  below. 

There  the  house  will  seem  lonely  and  filled  with  strange 
pain, 

And  there  will  be  crape  on  the  door, 
And  oft  you  will  listen,  but  listen  in  vain, 

For  a  step  that  is  heard  there  no  more. 


7O          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 

And  there  you  will  wander  up  into  my  room, 
Where  are  pictures  I  liked  on  the  wall, 

And  sit  there  alone  in  the  fast  deep'ning  gloom, 
But  I  shall  not  come  when  you  call. 

O  Mother,  dear  Mother,  I  long  to  remain, 

To  be  with  you  in  sickness  and  trouble  and  care, 

But  angels  are  calling,  are  calling  my  name, 
Yet  soon  we  shall  meet  over  there. 


THE  WORLD. 


THE   WORLD. 

I  HEAR  outside,  on  the  roof-top, 

The  gentle  beat  of  the  rain, 
And  somehow  as  I  listen, 

There  comes  to  me  a  sense  of  pain. 

A  longing  for  things  departed, 

That  will  never  come  back  any  more, 

For  the  young,  loving  friendships  of  boyhood, 
And  the  bright,  happy  days  of  yore. 

There  rises  before  my  vision, 

A  boy  I  knew  so  well, — 
The  love  that  we  bore  to  each  other, 

No  words  can  ever  tell. 

I  stretch  my  hands  out  toward  him, 

And  try  to  clasp  his  own, 
But  the  vision  then  fades  in  the  darkness, 

And  I  see  a  man  full-grown. 


72          POEMS  B  Y  WM.  MARSHALL  HO  WARD. 

He  is  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  ball-room, 
Where  the  scene  is  bright  and  gay, 

Yet  something  there  is  which  tells  me, 
That  his  thoughts  are  far  away. 

His  brow  with  care  is  o'erclouded, 

And  deep  in  his  heart  within, 
I  see  what  none  other  beholdeth, — 

The  dark,  cruel  marks  of  sin. 

How  changed  from  the  boy  I  remember  ! 

Yet  his  eyes  have  the  old  look  still, 
And  with  a  cry  I  try  to  embrace  him, 

While  the  tears  my  eyelids  fill. 

But  the  vision  then  fades  in  the  darkness, 
And  I  hear  but  the  beat  of  the  rain, 

But  more  loudly  my  temples  are  beating, 
With  a  keen,  uncontrollable  pain. 


LOST  HOPES.  73 


LOST   HOPES. 

No  more  I  'm  alone  in  my  dwelling, 
For  friends  I  now  have  by  the  score; 

Yet  sometimes  I  cannot  help  longing 
For  the  things  that  are  mine  no  more. 

For  the  hopes,  ah !  they  have  departed, 
That  once  were  held  dear  in  my  heart, 

And  like  the  glad  light  of  the  morning, 
Dispelled  all  the  shadows  apart. 

It  may  be  in  the  midst  of  this  turmoil, 
In  this  wild  and  aimless-lived  life, 

There  will  come  a  sweet,  heavenly  silence, 
When  I  '11  choose  me  the  pathway  of  strife. 

It  may  be  I  shall  go  on  forever, 

Till  death  the  sole  victory  has  won, 

And  in  Heaven  with  sorrow  look  backward 
On  the  things  that  might  have  been  done. 


74  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


TO   H.    M. 

THE  autumn  night  is  lonely,  cold,  and  still. 
From  where  I  stand  I  see  the  wooded  hill, 
And  farther  off  the  mountains  dim  and  blue 
That  bring  to  me  dear  memories  of  you. 
The  moon  is  full,  o'er  all  the  wooded  height 
It  sheds  its  cold  and  melancholy  light, 
And  once  again  I  feel  your  soul  touch  mine, 
As  in  that  happy  far-off  summer  time, 
When,  with  our  arms  around  each  other  thrown, 
We  knew  each  other's  friendship  we  did  own. 


A   DREAM.  75 


A  DREAM. 

LAST  night  I  had  a  dream.     I  seemed  to  see 
A  ball-room  gay  with  light  and  revelry, 
And  music  sounded  with  a  sad,  sweet  strain, 
As  if  to  call  God's  wanderers  home  again; 
But  in  that  throng  no  thoughts  to  Him  were  turned, 
Within  each  heart  but  earthly  passions  burned, 
And  Christ  was  held  a  vague,  unwelcome  guest, 
Whose  teachings  jarred  with  things  they  loved  the  best. 
But  lo,  I  saw  an  angel  moving  there, 
Whose  presence  like  a  blessing  filled  the  air; 
By  all  unseen  he  moved  amidst  the  throng, 
( Unfinished.) 


76  POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


CONTENTMENT. 

THEY  talk  of  the  pleasures  hereafter, 
Of  the  bliss  of  the  world  that  's  to  be, 

But  I  shall  try  here  to  be  happy, 
Until  my  soul  is  set  free. 

'T  is  true  the  other  may  be  better, 
Though  just  how  no  one  is  quite  sure, 

But  no  place  could  ever  seem  hateful 
If  the  soul  is  but  kept  good  and  pure. 


MY  MOTHER.  77 


MY   MOTHER. 

SOMETIMES  I  feel, — it  may  be  I  am  wrong, — 
That  you  are  with  me  more  than  I  may  know; 

That  bonds  between  us  were  so  very  strong, 
Death  could  not  break  them  by  a  cruel  blow. 

O  Mother,  how  I  long  to  have  you  here! 

And  since  that  on  this  earth  can  never  be, 
To  go  where  you  are,  nevermore  to  fear, 

Where  your  dear  face  I  once  again  shall  see. 

June  6,  1899. 


78          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


WEARINESS. 

How  many,  oh !  how  many, 
Have  found  in  death  but  gain! 

A  release  from  work  and  worry, 
A  release  from  grief  and  pain. 

How  many,  oh !  how  many, 
Who  have  tried  to  do  the  best 

They  could,  for  the  sake  of  the  Master, 
Have  longed  at  last  for  rest. 

How  many,  oh !  how  many, 

Have  willingly  left  all 
Their  work  undone  behind  them, 

When  they  heard  the  Master  call. 


August  i,  1899. 


THE  ANGEL'S  VISIT.  79 

THE   ANGEL'S   VISIT. 

IN  the  gray  morning,  before  't  was  light, 

And  the  village  was  wrapped  in  the  hush  of  sleep, 

Two  angels,  with  faces  which  shone  with  light, 
Hurried  along  the  empty  street. 

All  was  silent  and  dark  below, 

Save  where  the  tide  flowed  on  o'er  the  lea, 
Save  where  the  sky  was  beginning  to  glow 

With  the  light  of  the  dawn  that  was  to  be. 

Said  one,  "  Make  haste!  this  is  the  way, — 
See  yon  window  where  a  candle  burns; 

'T  is  there  are  the  children  we  're  to  take  away, 
And  back  with  us  ere  the  dawn  returns." 

Glad  and  clear  the  morning  broke, 

And  the  tide  flowing  back  from  the  lea, 

With  a  loud  and  boisterous  voice  awoke 
The  mist  that  was  over  the  sea. 

But  the  mother  now  waits  and  hearkens, 

As  she  sits  in  the  twilight  alone.    . 
And  sighs,  "  Alas!  't  is  growing  late, 

And  the  children  do  not  come  home." 


8O          POEMS  BY  WM,  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


TO   BEETHOVEN. 

O  BEETHOVEN,  monarch  of  the  mightiest  muse, 

Whose  harmonies  sublime, 
Like  clarion  notes,  still  echo 

Through  the  vaulted  halls  of  time! 

Who  is  there  that  dare  call  thee  dead  ? 

Since  the  great  and  good  can  never  die, 
But,  when  their  labor  here  is  past, 

Go  up  to  their  mightier  work  on  high. 

When  we  look  back  on  thy  noble  life, 
So  full  of  sorrow,  care,  and  pain, 

We  tremble,  when  we  think  what  strife 
Awaits  us  before  we  the  final  goal  attain. 


OLD  AGE.  8 1 


OLD  AGE. 

How  beautiful  is  Age  when  it  can  look 
Back  o'er  the  pages  of  Life's  finished  book, 

And  read  of  well-spent  years, 
And  records  of  Life's  lovely  morning  days, 
On  which  the  aged  still  love  to  gaze 

Through  mists  of  gathering  tears. 


82          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


CHRISTMAS. 

THE  birth  of  Christ  draws  near  again, 
But  oh!  the  day  we  cannot  keep, — 

For  every  pleasure  brings  up  pain, 
And  every  memory  cause  to  weep. 

For  she  who  but  one  year  ago 
Unto  us  all  such  pleasure  gave, 

With  loving  care,  now  lies  low 
In  her  grave, — low  in  her  grave. 


GOD    GIVETH  HIS  BELOVED   SLEEP.  83 


GOD  GIVETH  HIS   BELOVED   SLEEP. 

OH  !   "  I  am  weary  and  overwrought  " 
With  too  much  work  and  too  much  thought, 
But  God  bends  down  'mid  whirl  and  deep 
And  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

And  what  though  all  with  death  doth  cease; 
I  long  for  rest — for  rest  and  peace. 
For  when  our  care  becomes  too  deep, 
God  giveth  to  His  loved  ones  sleep. 


84          POEMS  BY  WM.  MARSHALL  HOWARD. 


DEATH. 

DEATH  means  release  from  worry,  care,  and  pain; 
Death  means  to  be  with  those  we  love  again, 
Never  again  from  their  dear  care  to  roam; 
Death  means  but  going  home. 


APPENDIX.  85 


APPENDIX. 

[The  last  day  of  Willie's  life  with  us  he  engaged  earnestly  in 
having  his  grandmother  reproduce  a  poem  which  she  wrote,  when 
about  his  own  age,  concerning  a  school  taught  near  the  Eastern 
shore  of  Lake  Champlain,  and  which  was  published  in  a  local  paper 
at  the  time.] 

GAY  whip-poor-will!  thy  notes  so  shrill, 

Rang  out  so  loud  and  clear; 
But  nevermore  that  joyous  thrill 

Can'st  thou  impart,  I  fear, 
Which  ran^  through  my  enraptur'd  frame, 
When  unto  me  thy  notes  first  came. 

The  place  do  I  remember  well, 

Where  first  thy  notes  I  singl'd: 
The  woody  shade  and  rocky  dell 

Were  rudely  intermingl'd, — 
The  evening  shades  were  onward  creeping, 
And  other  birds  were  sweetly  sleeping. 

[A  few  verses  here  were  lost  past  recall,  concerning  the  children 
gathering  wild  columbine,  etc.] 


86  APPENDIX. 

Each  eager  girl  and  loving  child 
Had  brought  her  offering  of  love, 

Till  a  massive  heap  of  posies  piled 
Lay  on  the  old,  rough  stove; — 

An  object  bright  to  one  and  all, 

A  joy  to  each,  both  great  and  small. 

That  rocky  seat, — the  one  great  strife, 

At  recess  and  at  noon, 
Gave  energy  and  zest  to  life, 

Though  't  was  abandoned  soon. 
To  gain  the  seat  was  all  the  fun, — 
After  the  rival  race  was  run. 

And  then  again  the  see-saws  grand, 

Made  with  the  living  tree; 
By  grasping  firmly  with  each  hand 

In  wild  and  boist'rous  glee 
The  supple  cedars — them  bending  low 
And  springing  on  the  tops  in  childish  glow. 

Whatever  else  they  may  forget, 

They  '11  ne'er  forget  the  spring, 
The  winning  and  the  fav'rite  pet, 

So  like  a  living  thing; 
Its  clear,  cold  stream — the  clean  white  sands, 

The  towering  rock  above, 
Forever  bright  in  memory  stands, 

The  object  of  their  love. 


APPENDIX.  87 

Those  days  are  past,  and  their  sweet  joys, 

And  we  think  we  're  wiser  grown; 
That  still  we  joy  with  as  fleeting  toys, 

We  '11  see  when  they  are  flown. 
Oh!  then,  dear  ones,  let  's  now  be  wise, 
Ere  earthly  scenes  are  ta'en  from  our  eyes. 

MARY  W.  HOWARD. 


END 


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